Lady Barbossa
by Mint Condition
Summary: Finally Barbossa fans rejoice. Here is a piece that will prove our Captain is simply irresistible. The story got a life of its own. Approach with caution. It’s that hot.


Lady Barbossa  
  
Pairing: Barbossa/OC  
  
Rating: R  
  
Dislaimer: 'Pirates of the Caribbean' belong to Walt Disney, a theme of spider's tattoo is from a short story by Tanizaki Junichiro, 'Tattoo' which was told to me by my best friend Gosia, may you live forever, mate.  
  
Before you venture any further: we are trespassing onto Barbossa's ship and it's way before his fatefull meeting with Jack Sparrow.  
  
When he tried to open his eyes, the pain in the back of his head advised him against it. He made an effort to push away through waves of pain and figure out where the hell he is and what led to his sorry state. He concentrated on the sensations. He felt wet; not only was he soaked through but where he laid there was enough water to make a puddle around him. Cracking of boards and unmistakable smell of must and spoilt fish furnished the answer. Ship.  
  
The fear started in his feet, crept up fast and hit him with realization. He was in trouble. He has to get out of here before his last night's companion comes back. He raised slowly palpating his head for the damage. The hand came back wet but stainless. He is fine. He can make it out of here. They cannot be that far from the shore. They were in harbor last night when the most dreadful business transaction of his life took place.  
  
Aye, they were just conducting business. How innocent that sounds. How far from a social call and how close to hell the last night events seemed. He was lured onto this ship with the promise of a deal. He was asked by a formidable looking man to be a delivery boy. The package was in the harbor, on the ship. The man had a distinctive manner never seen in these parts; the coying and cajoling was in his speech not in his money which he promised as well. Thus, they found themselves in the harbor walking towards a ship that must have just arrived because it was not anchored there in the day. The ship was dark and abandoned, no doubt the crew were resting in the ports' taverns. A few dark Moorish men guarded her but with one gesture of the gentleman, they retreated their steps. The name of the ship was Aranea, never heard of in these parts which further assured the growing suspicion.  
  
Yet, he let himself to be taken to the deck and into a candle lit salon where his host produced wine and some food and continued to be gracious. Handsome, raw face was sensuous when the lips parted to talk or taste wine, surely the elegant way he drank and ate was not bred at sea. Why was he dining him? Why didn't he get down to the matter of the delivery?  
  
As he was just letting the wine melt in his mouth, the mood shifted. Now in the lights of the candles, the face of his companion shed the graciousness he approached him with in the port. His eyes lit with some inner urge. "Listen," he said, shifting in his chair and piercing the listener with his eyes demanding alert. The delivery was not going to be an easy deal after all.  
  
'Years have passed since I've asked anybody to do a favor.' He dispensed the last word as it tasted of bad meat.  
  
'I sought you out not by chance. I looked for someone with a skill that is required to complete a certain task. Your name was mentioned in London. People still remember you, ye know,' he smiled playfully almost.  
  
The wave of embarrassment of being found gave way to anger for being cheated, 'It is not a delivery you wanted me to do, is it?'  
  
'No, not a delivery. It was the only discreet way to get you to come here. I'm Captain Barbossa. I'll be needing your skills.'  
  
'I'm not doing it anymore. Didn't they tell you? I'm banned from England. They call my work damning. People had died. Surely you have heard!'  
  
'I've heard stories.' He was amused now. 'They christened you the Devil's Hand. Your body painting skills indeed come across as devilish in their genius.'  
  
'What is that you want from me? I stopped the work, I paint churches now, you know the things that don't bring doom on people,' he was bitter now. He knew he wasted his calling painting walls.  
  
'Are you really blaming yourself for what happened? ', Barbossa kept his half smile on. He was still congratulating himself on his find.  
  
'There was a killing. The man died. Didn't they tell you?!'  
  
'Aye', unimpressed and sipping wine. 'People tell all sorts of things when they are drunk. They said she killed him, strangled him when he was under her, like a spider. Her back was a piece of art. How many hours did you work on that?'  
  
'All day, till the light was good. The spider, her request. She wanted to cover her entire back. Next day she goes and kills her fiancée. The spider on her back became her. My work is damned, it brings curse on people. And that doesn't frighten you?!'  
  
'Fear? Maybe that is what I need,' he drank up the last of his wine and reached for the carafe. 'I'll make it worth your time,' he paused for an effect.  
  
The man was an artist himself in getting what he wanted. 'I'll pay in gold'.  
  
The body painter gasped; he made promise to himself never to tattoo another creature but gold called to him with its own promise of leaving this island forever.  
  
Suddenly Barbossa, obviously taking the silence for an accord, stood up loudly from the table. With no time he shed his caftan and his shirt.  
  
'Here, I want you to paint a woman's face.'  
  
'Wha. What? ', the artist was still reeling from the effect of this big and healthy broad shoulders that were in front of him. He himself was of slight built, malnutrition taking away his male frame and dealing him a gaunt look instead. He was as tall as the Captain but in no way was he so splendid, so prepossessing. The artist came closer entranced by the material with which he was to work. Barbossa stood with his back to him.  
  
'I want it on my back. A woman's face', he repeated as if his mind were made long time ago.  
  
The questions rushed. Who is she? No doubt love. Is there a portrait of the lass to use as a model? Then, the artist came to. He couldn't possibly do it. He didn't have his tools. All was left in his cheap rented room, under the boards of the floor.  
  
'I can't. My tools. I don't carry them with me anymore.'  
  
Barbossa's voice became softer once his owner shed his shirt, 'Fear not, I have the tools.'  
  
The skin was radiating warmth and there was a scent. He bathed today, the artist thought lustfully. There were no scars on the back, not even a birth mark, in the light of the candle the skin did not give away its freckles but the artist knew they were there, such was the complexion of his client.  
  
He had to say something, it was his time to speak. 'You want me to work tonight?'  
  
'Yes, I want you to start right away. Here', he reached into his pocket. 'Here's the lady whose face I want to carry on me to my grave. Lady Barbossa'.  
  
The artist took the locket. The woman was indeed a beauty, what they call an English Rose. Her hair was dark, her complexion porcelain with just a touch of rose hue, her lips full and half parted as if she was sucking in breath in veneration of herself. Her eyes, unmistakably the darkest shade of blue, did not look at the artist but instead somewhere further as if expecting someone else will enter the room. The air of aloofness was chilling. This was not a lady to be dismissed easily.  
  
'See, this lady here is my past. I want to put her behind me but I can't let her die in my memory,' Barbossa was speaking with difficulty. It was not his nature to share his secrets. 'I want to carry her on my back as it were,' he added to lift the mood.  
  
'I understand very well,' whispered the artist. He was partial to the obscure, as one who had his own share of sins. He had no further questions. He remained confused as to why Barbossa was still standing. The artist pulled out a heavy chair but Barbossa was firm, 'I'll take it standing.' This was going to be a challenge with no paragon.  
  
The urge to touch the skin made him restless. His big bony hands were shaking when he opened the tool case. He will have to pierce and cause defects to this heavenly smooth and soft skin, and he felt he just couldn't bring himself to do it. But Barbossa grew impatient sensing the tattoo artist was afraid.  
  
'For God's sake, man, get to work.'  
  
'Aye sir', he came closer. There was a moment when he closed his eyes to better inhale the warm smell of his client. And then he started what came to him as natural as breathing. First he took a needle with a wooden handle and held it in candle's fire to disinfect it, then he dipped it in a pigment made from the soot of burnt candlenut and oil. He held the needle to the captain's back and began piercing it.  
  
Barbossa let out a sigh. A short intake of breath. Perhaps out of surprising, burning pain.  
  
The artist shuddered, he has began a process of intruding upon the calm and wholeness of the Captain's lower neck. The blood appeared lovely on the white skin, but the artist wiped it immediately to keep the view clear. He worked in silence, entranced by his favorite task.  
  
Barbossa stood firmly, lost in his thoughts, seemingly taking the pain with a welcome.  
  
When the lady's face was almost finished, the artist felt pride. The resemblance to the portrait in the medallion was uncanny, though the tattoo was four times bigger. That must be one of his best works yet, he thought, remembering the fateful spider as the second best and smiling despite the misfortune it had brought him.  
  
'You have most beautiful skin, sir,' it was out before he realized. He bit his lip.  
  
There was no answer. Maybe Barbossa didn't hear him, his senses clouded by the foggy state of pain.  
  
The artist felt the mischief of those words liberated him. He put his left hand under the Captains arm, holding him as he put the final touches on the tattoo. His hand was fast engulfed in sweet and moist warmth, as it was lodged between the Captain's backside and his arm. He shifted a little in response to sensation so pleasant his knees wanted to buckle. What if he moved that damned Devil's hand of his an inch further? Barbossa surely couldn't move and risk the needle to slip. The artist shifted on his legs and moved the hand. It now rested right below, oh so close, the realization made him dizzy, to the Captain's teat.  
  
Barbossa let on nothing. He might as well be asleep standing. It encouraged the artist, whose hand now started to sweat a little from the heat of the dare and from the moisture on the Captain's skin.  
  
He stepped in closer, now almost brushing with his poor, dirty clothes the body in front of him. The tattoo was over, he decided. But his client knew nothing of it. He kept on pretending to still fuss over it and with his left hand moved as close to the teat as he could. In his crotch he felt a dull pang. He was sweating now. He sensed Barbossa was consenting by doing nothing. He put his dried lips closer to that magnificent breathing skin. He didn't want to scare his client, he prayed in his head for his life to be spared, for Barbossa to remain as he was, motionless and entranced. As he touched with his lips to the skin of lower neck, his hand brushed the teat and oh heavens, both Barbossa and he uttered similar short, low sound. The artist's was the sound of an escaped pleasure, the Barbossa's of what sounded as pent up relief. The artist now felt welcomed to tease the teat to his companion's content. He longed to do nothing else now, but to bring this wonderful specimen in front of him pleasure and release. That is not to say he forgot about himself. He moved liquidly to the left, leaving the needle on the table and coming in front of Barbossa. He didn't dare to look into his face, yet. He still wasn't sure if what he was doing was allowed, let alone welcomed. 'Better pretend I lost my mind, I'm a lunatic who lost control', he licked and nibbled at the teat, aware that Barbossa's breathing has accelerated. Was it a soft moan that he just heard? It did bring up a lunatic in him. He was given a sign. He worked furiously with his hands to open the fly, he knelt and took the hard, burly cock in his mouth. The pleasure it gave him to feel its pressure and hotness was almost blinding. A low groan was heard above him and a strong hand closed on his skull.  
  
'What is wrong with you, man?', came a shuttered voice. 'Stop.' The hand closed hard on his matted hair and the artist knew better than to mistake this grab for a caress. He backed out.  
  
Barbossa took him by the shoulders and lifted him up. Now, at last he could see the feelings on his not-to-be lover's face. Barbossa was furious with himself.  
  
The next thing he knew he was bouncing down the wooden stairs of Aranea's brig. 


End file.
